The Fireside: The Accounts of Four Legends
by Blue Eyes At Night
Summary: You will find inside four separate tellings of the love and love stories of LancelotElaine, TristranIsotta and a GalahadOC all with a movietwist to them. Can be read separately or all together, doesn't matter. RR! Rated T because adult material not explic
1. The Fire

**The Fireside: **The Accounts of Four Legends

By Blue Eyes At Night

They had to stop; it was obvious to anyone that they had to stop. Food, water, rest…….they were exhausted beyond words and would collapse if they did not replenish their supplies and sleep.

Tristran was leading them to a small town, not far out of there way but at that point it didn't matter how far away it was. When they got there the townspeople were very nice, very welcoming. Most had never seen a Roman soldier, much less one of the legendary Sarmatian knights.

They passed an old gnarled willow tree on that banks of a stream, and within a few minutes emerged into a small but bustling town. Within the ten years they'd been traveling, it had quickly become obvious to the riders that the less they said about Rome, the better, for in Briton it could get you killed as easily as fed to say you were a Roman soldier, even an enslaved one.

The group was bedraggled from rain, snow, insomnia and countless other afflictions. Even Arthur, so patient, calm and flexible, all but demanded a room and respite from the travel. When the knights were finally settled they slept, they ate, they drank…and they were studied by the natives they had intruded upon.

One night, the men were coming back from the river, as well as long overdue baths, when an old crone approached them. She looked harmless enough; simply an elderly woman crouched over a walking stick with a tattered cloak and no shoes. With one all encompassing look at the knights, her face broke into a toothless grin.

"So…you're the boys all the town is making such a fuss about?" And with that she sat on a stump on the side of the road, looking at them expectantly.

"We are soldiers, good grandmother." Galahad spoke kindly.

"From the Wall, I think?"

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at the old woman, they had told nobody they were from the wall, "Yes, we are from the wall. This is the Sarmatian cavalry of much renown."

Nodding her head she pointed a gnarled finger at Arthur, "You are no Sarmatian. You are a Roman."

"I am Arthur Castus. I lead these men."

"And I am a witch, I lead the demons and the fairies both." With a fair amount of difficulty she stood up from her stump and began walking away. The knights were puzzled as to her purpose until she turned, addressing them, "Come, lonely souls. I have a present for you."

"We need no gifts, my lady." Arthur said diplomatically, not sure accepting anything from the crone would be wise.

The woman used her walking stick to draw back the leaves hanging from the willow that the men had passed under not three days ago, revealing a fairly sized fire crackling happily into the evening air.

"Tis merely a fire, my lords."

Lancelot took a step forward, peering at the flames, sharing Arthur's thoughts on anything the old crone offered, "Many thanks, but we can make our own. Warm your own bones with those flames."

She reached out a hand and touched Lancelot's arm, tracing the pattern of his shirt until she had reached his palm. Almost lovingly she traced the lines that time and hardship had carved into it, whispering, "There is something special about these flames. Something no fire you can build can offer you."

The woman let his hand drop and turned to the rest, meeting the eyes of Galahad, "There are treasures in the fire, treasures from the past."

She moved on through the group, by-passing Gawain and Bors until she came to Tristran, "Treasures you may have thought lost forever. But they are not… such joys as those never wilt nor fade, they certainly cannot die."

Something in Tristran's eyes glazed over, and the woman turned back to Galahad, reaching a wrinkled hand to touch his cheek, "Some memories are not as far as others… until we push them away."

Finally she returned to Lancelot, "The fire will show you that which you thought lost, a passion forgotten, dead and buried. It will show you these things…if you give it the merest taste of your flesh, it shall seep into your mind and bring forth that of which legends are made."

She gave a fond pat to Lancelot's cheek and bowed low, ushering the men into the glade. Having no desire to send the seemingly mad woman into a frenzy Arthur shepherded his men around the fire. He turned to see if the woman had gone, and it seemed as though the crone had vanished, like a shooting star into the sky.

Gawain was quick to kid with Galahad about being petted by the witch, and Bors made short work of Lancelot, petting his cheek and cooing to him, "Such a pretty boy, such a very…..pretty……lonely boy."

"Get off, Bors!" Lancelot pushed the man away irritably, his eyes trained on the flame, "What could the crone have meant? 'Let it taste your flesh'?"

"She wants you to jump into the fire, Lance, I say give it a shot." Gawain laughed, "Then I can comfort the girls back home."

Lancelot kneeled next to the fire, and reached out his hands, warming them, "Well, it seems normal enough. It's bright, it's giving off heat…."

Gawain, still tremendously entertained by the whole notion of Lancelot being consumed by the flames, gave a gentle kick to Lancelot's behind, causing the man to lose his balance and nearly topple head first into the fire. As it was, only his hand was burned as it was licked by the orange tongue of the flames.

Giving a yelp of pain Lancelot pulled back and made as if to smack Gawain across his face when Galahad gave a yell, "Dear Gods!"

The men turned to him, finding him pale and pointing at the fire, "L-look! Just look there will you! There was a face in the fire!"

"Galahad will you stop making up no—" But Bors never finished his remark for as he turned to see the fire he saw what all the men saw: a face.

Not just any face, but one they all knew, one they remembered.

Lancelot collapsed onto a fallen log as he stared open mouthed at the image and stuttered, "E….Elaine?"

And so the knights sat around the fire, staring at it as though it was the most masterful magician in all the world, for instead of a rabbit it had pulled from the depths a woman….a _ghost_.

A/N- Ok…first off Hello! To everyone, this is my first King Arthur post though I'm not a newbie by any means.

This fic is gonna be odd….each following chapter is dedicated to my interpretations of Arthurian legends. Lancelot/Elaine….Tristran/Isolde (I'm spelling it Isotta…I think it looks prettier not to offend anyone). I'm also doing a Galahad/OC and maybe a Gawain/Ragnelle if I feel up to it.

All the fics can be read as one shots, my personal favorite it Tristran/Isotta cause I worked on their's the longest and feel it's the most well-written.

Hope everyone likes it! READ/REVIEW!


	2. Elaine: The Dreamer

Elaine- The Dreamer

Her hair was long and in dirty waves of old gold as she ran. The fire did not show where she was running but she was running toward something, and as she grew nearer her whole face lit up.

Finally she grasped the bars of the gate that separated the knights' quarters from the rest of the town and heaved a great sigh. From behind her a younger Vanora came up, "Elaine! Are they out yet? Do you see them?"

Vanora waddled over, her stomach swollen significantly, her hand clutching that of a small boy probably no more then three, "Gilly, stop draggin' your feet! Your father's here!"

Elaine turned her head flashing a radiant smile at Vanora, "Oh you're so lucky that you have Bors. I only wish…"

"You wish Lancelot would sweep you off your feet, spend a few magical hours with you and then seven months later you could be just as swollen, sore, and ornery as me…BORS! Bors! Get your fat ass over here! I've been waiting since yesterday! Bors!"

Vanora's cynical words did nothing to stop Elaine from staring through the bars, sighing at odd intervals.

"I wish he knew who I was, Vanora…I wish that with all my heart."

Vanora stopped tapping her foot impatiently and let go of Gilly's hand, at which time he darted off to go play with other children, and Vanora could look at the other girl, who still gazed through the bars.

"Do you really want that? He's a terrible womanizer."

"I know…" A small pout formed, this was not something Elaine cared to recall all too often, "But….oh Vanora could you say something to Bors? Maybe? Please?"

"You mean besides 'Get off me you great, dirty pig'?"

"Vanora don't joke!" Elaine turned and grabbed Vanora's hands with both of hers, "Could you have Bors tell Lancelot about me? Or have him point me out? Oh, just have him look at me! Please Vanora?"

If Vanora replied the fire cut it off, the men were still amazed by the workings of this strange witchcraft and watched as the fire showed them another scene, occurring later that night.

"Here, Elaine, take this." Vanora handed her a bottle of ale that took both of Elaine's slender hands to hold without dropping, "And go offer the knights a drink."

"But…."

"No buts! You wanted to meet Lancelot?" Elaine nodded, "Well take it from me, there's nothing a knight notices faster then the breasts that hover about eye-level when ale's being poured, now shoo! Go!"

Vanora sat back, one hand trying to relieve the stress on the small of her back as the other rubbed her stomach and she watched, as did the onlookers outside the flame, as Elaine went over to the knights, mumbling something they could only assume was "Would you like a drink?"

She poured the drinks, all the while staring at Lancelot. He was talking animatedly to Arthur at the time but when he turned his head to find his cup, he caught her watching him. Elaine turned a brilliant shade of red and pretended to be very interested in filling Gawain's cup. Before she left she tried to steal another glance at Lancelot…only to find that his eyes were already on her.

Blushing even more she scuttled away and the scene rushed forward to even later that night.

Elaine was busy helping Vanora clean up some of the dishes and jugs when a voice from behind purred, "I've never seen you before…and I'm certain I'd remember if I had."

Lancelot's voice was smooth and practiced and when she met his eyes, they were twinkling mischievously. Vanora made some excuse and backed out of the small room, leaving Elaine and Lancelot alone.

"You…you wouldn't have seen me….I've never been inside the gate before."

Lancelot quirked an eyebrow, "A pity you weren't let in sooner. And what does one so beautiful do outside the gates?"

She blushed and gazed at him admiringly, "Watch you."

The words were gone before she could think of them and realized, too late, that they sounded rather bad.

But Lancelot seemed amused and gave a small laugh, "Watch me…and how long have you been watching me?"

"Since you came here."

"Seven years? I feel badly for your husband, he must be terribly jealous that I take up so much of your time."

"I….I don't have a husband." Her voice was quiet; she felt her breath was harder to draw the longer she stood in Lancelot's presence.

"A lover, perhaps?"

"No…" Her response was little more then a whisper.

"Isn't that interesting?" His tone was heavy with something she could not identify and she felt as though Lancelot must have moved closer for her back was now against the table and it still seemed as though there wasn't any space between them.

He moved his head lower and she closed her eyes, praying for the kiss, and as Lancelot watched from his seat he could remember that night so well. She had been as jittery as a filly around him, her naivety playing into that considerably, but there was a longing underneath it…he remembered that first kiss. But the fire did not reveal it. The fire merely moved on.

It was some weeks later, the men had not had just returned from a small skirmish with the woads. As they road in there were cries from the gate and Lancelot, who normally ignored them, turned to see the criers now. And there she was, eyes big and blue studying him as though she could see through his armor and find an injury. Catching her gaze he motioned that he was unharmed and she heaved a relieved sigh. He dismounted and crossed the courtyard to the gate.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" She greeted him.

"I'll only tell you if you let me kiss you." That mischievous glint was back and she blushed, "I'll not let you kiss me through the bars."

Laughing Lancelot opened the gate and she flung her arms around his neck, pressing an urgent kiss to his mouth. He happily let her have that kiss and pressed against her, returning her fervor with his own and it was several minutes before she pulled away breathlessly, "You're quite unharmed?"

"Quite." He assured her before lowering his head and claiming another kiss.

Rushing forward the fire lit on Elaine, her mane of golden hair thrown about her wildly and her neck and back arched, a moan of pleasure echoing in the woods the men were in. Suddenly all eyes were darting between Lancelot and the fire.

In the flames, Lancelot's great head of curls slowly moved until it was hovering inches above Elaine, she moved her arms so that they were wrapped around his neck and pressed another kiss to him. He ran his fingers up her arms until they were entwined with hers then he pushed her hands until he trapped both of them above her head under one of his. Trailing kisses down her neck, he elicited nothing but pleasured groans and giggles from her. The men watching were riveted by her form, before them in all its glory save for the lower half, which Lancelot's body blocked from view.

"Are you gonna be moving or is all we get to see your ass?" Bors cracked, staring open mouthed at the woman in the fire.

"Stop staring at my ass and start taking notes, at least then you can pleasure your own woman instead of leaving her to me." Lancelot smirked; he didn't seem to mind that his friends were seeing his technique, inwardly however he winced at this view of Elaine, the part of her that only he had ever seen. She was so dedicated to him; she would die to know other men had seen her in such a state…

The breathing of the couple became rougher, faster and just as Lancelot was pushing Elaine's knees to an interesting position the scene died, and angry howls echoed from the knights, "NO! Not when it's just getting good!"

It was a different time, a different bed. Though how much later in time only Lancelot could have said for certain. His beard was longer, his frame thinner, Elaine looked slightly softer, rounder. She looked to be glowing. But that may have just been the fact that she and her lover had just concluded another tryst.

"Won't you stay?" Her voice sounded small and pained as he stood up and began pulling on his pants and searching for his belt and tunic. When he didn't answer Elaine mutely reached under the small bed and produced both, handing them to him obediently.

Taking them from her he quickly slipped them on, then leaned forward and kissed her head, "I'm too restless to sleep; I'm going to go have a drink."

She was already half out of bed, "I'll come with –"

"No, dear," Lancelot cut her off, "That's not fair to you. You must be exhausted; it's been a long day and night for you. Sleep, keep the bed warm. I'll come back."

He walked out without giving her a chance to rebut his words, closing the argument as the door. As soon as his footsteps faded the fire showed her, worriedly biting her nails, causing two to bleed before she stood up in a rush and threw on clothes haphazardly. Throwing her golden curls into a knot she all but ran to the bar.

_Just to see him…silly of me to be so jealous. Jealous of what?_ Her thoughts reverberated as though they were spoken. The knights had all quieted and looked solemn, they remembered what happened next.

Lancelot was sitting next to Gareth and Bors, drinking heartily from his cup (which was kept full by his fellows) and was animatedly talking to a pretty brunette in his lap. Elaine stopped dead in her tracks when she saw this and close her eyes, muttering to herself, "It doesn't mean anything, it doesn't mean anything at all…."

Upon opening them she saw Lancelot's hand comfortably resting on the girl's hip as he gave her a languorous kiss. The only person who thought this wrong, besides the girl taking deep, pained breaths in the shadows, was Vanora. Who promptly came over, with her infant in her arms, and poured a jug of wine over Lancelot and his new paramour.

The girl and Lancelot both jumped up angrily, "What in the hell did you do that for!" He cried.

Vanora slapped him soundly across the face and peered into the girl's eyes with a look that could've frozen the very fire that presented it, "You leave him be and don't let me see you so much as LOOK at him again!"

Desperately frightened of Vanora the girl sprinted away, leaving Lancelot under her full rage. There was fire in his eyes as well, "Why did you do that? What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with ME? What's wrong with _ME!_" She slapped him again, "You self-loving, heartless bastard don't you DARE treat Elaine like another one of your whores! Don't you dare sit here and yell at me when there is a girl in your room who loves you and you're treating her like yesterday's stale bread! Now that you've gone and dipped your fingers in the honey it's not so sweet to you, is it? You bloody prick I'd claw your eyes out if she didn't love them so much!"

The baby was wailing at this point and Vanora shoved it into Bors' arms, he took the child without a word, knowing he did not want to deal with his lover when she was this livid.

Lancelot was not one to back down, "Who are you to tell me how to run my private affairs? What Elaine and I do is none of your business! Don't fling names at me, I don't deserve them! I treat her well!"

"As well as an old horse! You're tired with riding the same old mare and now you're looking for a frisky young filly!"

"If I'm bored with her it is no business of yours! If I want to screw every loose legged slut in this village, so help me that is _my_ decision! Not yours! Not hers! Not-"

"FINE! GO AHEAD AND DO IT! AND MAY YOU BE MORE MISERABLE EACH TIME!" The cry erupted from the darkest shadow in the bar and Lancelot's heart sank to his feet as he saw Elaine turn and run away, crying her eyes out. Vanora's look shot him daggers as she ran after her friend.

Skipping the chase, the next scene shown was Vanora catching up to Elaine, who had flung herself on the ground, pounding the ground and crying with all her might. Vanora put her arms around the girl, cooing and cooing, trying to comfort her all the while cursing Lancelot with such words that made even Bors blush.

Elaine sobbed into her friend's shoulder, "You were right Vanora…you were right! He is just a womanizer! He is just a cad! I wanted something that he doesn't have- a heart! Oh Vanora! Vanora…..I can't do it alone! I just can't! I don't know what I'll do!"

"Can't do what, dovey?"

Elaine looked up for the first time, her tear streaked face and bloodshot eyes making her look like a ghost more then a woman as she said, "Vanora….I'm pregnant."

Lancelot hung his head in shame; the men around the fire all grumbled lowly, trying to make Lancelot feel less awkward but nothing worked.

The scene flipped ahead, Elaine was mending a tunic, her stomach did not appear to be big yet except for the smallest hill forming. Vanora walked through the room clicking her tongue, "I don't know why you're so dedicated to that poor excuse of a man."

Elaine admired the tunic with a smile, one hand over the tiny swell, "I can't help it…the man is infuriating and yet…I love him."

"You love how good he is in bed."

At this Lancelot could not help but beam and Bors croaked, "How does she know how good you are in bed?"

"No…it's more that it's him then what he's doing." Lancelot's face fell at an astounding rate and he gaped at the fire open-mouthed as Galahad and Gawain burst out laughing, Arthur patted his friend's back saying "You can't fault her with dishonesty!" as even Tristran and Dagonet allowed themselves a laugh.

Vanora laughed as well, then snorted, "You should tell him that to his face and I guarantee his pride won't allow him to leave your side until he's changed your mind!"

"Ain't that the truth!" Dagonet surprised everyone with the exclamation.

"Oh Vanora," Elaine continued, stroking her stomach, "I don't care about his bedwork…I never did. I wanted him, I wanted my knight. I…" Her eyes became dark, heavy, "I know it sounds foolish but I cannot imagine life without him now that I have known it with him. I cannot remember peering through that gate wishing he would so much as look at me….He has been better to me. Not that he was ever horrible. He is a cad, he always will be I suppose, but he's been so nice to me recently. So concerned and so…loving. I can't help but love him, Vanora."

Rolling her eyes Vanora said, "You're a right fool, you are."

The scene progressed, Elaine stood outside Lancelot's door, knocking demurely and waiting for a response. When none came she tested the handle and found the door was open, she peered inside and saw the room was empty. Tiptoeing inside she laid the tunic she'd mended on the bed and gave it a lasting look, finally running a hand over the covers and shivering.

"See! She DID like the bedwork!" Lancelot was smiling like a child with a piece of candy.

In the flame, Lancelot snuck up behind Elaine and whispered, "Say the word and you can stay tonight."

She jumped with an exclamation of surprise, "Lancelot! You frightened me…."

He smiled at her kindly, looking past her to the tunic she had mended, "Elaine, you needn't wait on me hand and foot, mending my clothes and fetching me things from the market…"

Elaine put a finger against his lips, "I know I don't have to…I want to."

Letting her hand drop she continued, "It hurts to have to share you with the world…but I can't give you up completely."

"Why not?" He seemed genuinely concerned, "Why can't you forget about me? Don't you know that I could forget you easily?"

He turned his back so she couldn't see the lie; she smiled and turned him around, kissing his cheek. "Don't say such things, even if they aren't true."

"Why am I so important to you?"

"Many reasons." She shrugged, but it was clear there was more to her words then she tried to play off.

Biting her lip she met his gaze, "Lancelot…there is something I must tell you. Know that I am not trying to win you back…I wouldn't win you back if I could."

"Why not?"

"You'd leave me again." He did not refute her statement and she continued, "I just think it is only fair that you know…also I will need your help from time to time. I won't pretend I am stronger then I am."

"What is it?" He looked concerned, he though she was ill.

"I'm having your child, probably in the spring." She tried to say this casually but failed and bit her lip, balling her hands into fists to try and ease the tension in her heart.

Lancelot was so struck by the blow that he was forced to sit down, crumpling the tunic she had just fixed and looked at her with new eyes.

Jumping forward the scene showed Elaine, her belly as large as Bors', waddling around the edge of the gate, rubbing her back to try and ease some of the pain. Vanora came up beside her with her youngest child taking awkward steps, clinging to her mother's skirts, Vanora's own belly was growing large again.

"I told you so…I hate to say it, but didn't I tell you that one day you'd be standing outside this gate with me, belly as big as a house, waiting for one of the good for nothings to show up and do his part?"

Agitatedly Elaine pouted, "Oh, I rather think he did his part when he got me into this fine mess."

Bors and Lancelot came to the gate like condemned men, not sure if their women were in the mood to kiss or kill, and there was always the chance that their moods could turn at any moment. When the men reached out to hug their women, both were taken aback by a loud slap across Lancelot's face, "Where the hell have you been? I've been waiting for you!"

Vanora chuckled and whispered to Bors, "Something she picked up from me…"

The flame danced until it showed Elaine, staring out a window her hands smoothing over her engorged stomach. Lancelot showed up and she smiled at him, his hair was tousled and his clothes were awkwardly wrinkled as though they'd been thrown on in a hurry.

"Sorry I'm late." He bent down and brushed a kiss over her forehead before dropping to his knees and pressing his cheek to her belly.

"Were you in the stables?" Elaine pulled a piece of hay out of his hair. She knew what he'd been doing but she'd play pretend for both they're sakes. She simply could not endure a fight with him now.

"Ah..er…yes, Galahad had a problem with the new sable gelding. The beast is still settling in you know…" Turning he planted a kiss on her swell, "How are we this evening?"

Elaine put a hand on his cheek and forced him to look her in the eyes, "Your son has been kicking my so mercilessly that I haven't been able to rest a bit….and the healers said that I needed plenty of sleep."

Tapping her stomach he scolded, "Behave! Your mother does a lot for us both and she needs her rest now."

He looked up to her, "Feel better then you did this morning?"

"Well…I'm can hold food if that's considered an improvement…"

The lovely domestic scene was shattered as the fire advanced.

They were sleeping side by side, seemingly at peace. Elaine began, ever so slightly, to toss and turn. Lancelot, with a soldier's instincts, sprung wide awake as soon as he felt movement but calmed when he saw it was just Elaine. He was about to close his eyes when she began too whimper and mewl like a beaten kitten.

Tears slowly came down her face and then she put hands over her stomach and sat bolt upright as if she too had been expecting an attack.

Tentatively Lancelot put a hand on her back, rubbing gently, "Are you alright, Elaine?"

She tried to speak but her voice croaked, licking her lips and taking a moment she shook her head, "It was just…a bad dream."

He could tell by her face it was more then that, "Why were you crying?"

"I….." She shut her mouth as though words simply could not come through, "I…it was strange. I saw what will come to pass. I saw…I saw you and, and a Woad in a Queen's gown. You were fighting, so was she. She had great tusks like a sow painted on her face…and you saved her. You saved her life and died."

He did not know what else to say besides, "At least we know it shan't come true…when has any Woad worn a dress?"

Elaine stared into the space before her intensely but her eyes were not focused on anything in the room, instead they targeted something far in the future, "You loved her. You…you could not have her. She was out of your reach, beyond your hands. But you loved her nonetheless. Truly loved her, not as you once pretended to love me."

"I do love you…"

"You love me in a way, I like to believe that you do. But you do not love me as I love you." Suddenly she turned her eyes to him, "And she will not love you as you love her."

With all the dread focus and unnatural calm that a seer possesses, Elaine whispered, "I am sorry that one day you shall know the ache of a beating, broken heart, but I am also glad for it. You do not begrudge me that tiny bit of gladness, do you?"

He was so taken aback he could only mutter, "No."

The next time the fire settled on a scene Lancelot was drinking rowdily. He was not in the same tavern the knight's normally drank at, but one about two miles north that the knights would occasionally visit to enjoy anonymity. He had gotten there in the afternoon but the full moon with its bloody circle was high in the sky. Stumbling slightly as he attempted to put his horse's saddle and bridle away and sneak back into his bedroom undetected, he failed to notice that Arthur was even in the same stable as he until his commander was all but on top of him.

"Arthur!" The name was slightly slurred, "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. Come with me, Lancelot, quickly!"

"What for?" He wanted nothing more then to sleep for a hundred years. Swearing off alcohol he tried to absorb Arthur's words.

"It's Elaine, she's in labor."

"No she's not, not 'til spring. It's still winter." Lancelot swayed but Arthur caught his arm before he could fall.

"I know it is, but she's having the babe now and you should be there. Hurry up!" Dragging his friend along Arthur stormed out of the barn, a man on a mission.

Next was a short scene, Arthur bringing Lancelot to a door where most of the men were gathered already, some sitting, some standing, and Bor's snoring against the wall. He wasn't as caught up in the hype of a birth as he had been through his fare share.

Lancelot took a seat behind the door and jumped a foot in the air as a pained howl came from the hidden room.

As the fire showed Elaine, her face red, sweaty and screwed up in intense concentration, Lancelot could not help but look away. He could not bare to watch what he knew was happening.

"Push, Elaine! Push!" Vanora roared over the huge lump of Elaine's stomach, "Bloody push, will you?"

"I'M PUSHING!" Elaine screeched and let out another howl like a dying bear.

The men seemed to hear the screams echoing in their ears for the many hours of labor she had gone through. It seemed like dawn was breaking when the midwife, taking a knife, made a slash in Elaine and pulled out a small, screaming infant.

There was hardly a beat when the old crone noticed something was not quite right. The hardship was not over. But she could not say anything to Elaine just yet for the girl was gasping for breathe, trembling and barely able to raise her arms from the bedside. Her voice was a hoarse cackle as she asked to see the baby.

"No, child, you cannot see the babe."

"Wh…why not?" Elaine asked.

"Because there's another to deliver."

Elaine's tired eyes grew wide and filled with tears, "No! No, no, no! I can't… I can't do it…again."

"You'll have to try."

In the background Vanora cleaned and cooed to the infant. It was a noon by the time the next child was halfway into the world. The head was out, with one arm, when Elaine suddenly went completely limp, her every muscle gave way and the midwife had to pull the child from her without assistance. Quickly taking the second babe over to be cleaned, the old woman did not really look at the state of the mother. She assumed, understandably, that Elaine had collapsed from exhaustion.

Everyone did. The women in the room did not spare a glance to the woman. None until Vanora, handing the first-born to a young assistant, wabbled over, "Now you're in for the fun part. Wait 'til you see….Elaine?"

Elaine's head lolled to one side, her bright eyes open and staring at nothing.

Vanora poked her, shook her gently, "Elaine? Elaine!"

But the girl did not respond. Nor did she blink. Nor did she breathe.

"ELAINE!" Vanora shrieked.

From outside the door the men were more confused then ever. Hours and hours ago they heard a baby crying and assumed the worst was over. When no one came out they continued to wait. Now, half a day since this whole ordeal began, they heard a woman wailing.

And suddenly the door was flung open and Vanora threw herself into Bors' arms, her whole body shaking with her sobs. The midwife did not even make it to the door when Vanora pointed at Lancelot and viciously shouted, "You go in there and see what you've done! You see what you've done!"

His face ashen, Lancelot walked into the birth room. He saw Elaine laying on the bed, and like the women who had attended the birth, thought her asleep. He was dead on his feet, he could only imagine how she must feel. How exhausted.

But then trained eyes caught something, the evenness of her chest. The complete stillness of her breast.

Suddenly he was sitting next to her, the soiled covers unnoticed as he turned her face to look into her eyes and found that they were glazed over, forever staring far away. He ran his hand through her hair and brushed his knuckles across her cheek before he jumped away from the bed as though it had stabbed him. Beside him the old midwife cleared her throat, "I'm sorry that she did not make it. It was…a most difficult birth."

"What happened? Why did she…"

He could not make himself say die. He could not bring himself to say aloud that she was dead.

"Well, twins are always a hazard to both child and mother…"

"Twins?" Lancelot tore his eyes from the body of Elaine, "Did you say twins?"

The woman motioned to the two girls who had been assisting her. Each held a tiny bundle in their arms that was moving about and gurgling occasionally.

"I should congratulate you on two fine sons, Lancelot, but I think I should warn you they may be short lived, they came early and are small. Twins always run the risk of an early death."

The other men were still outside, though undoubtedly knew what lay beyond the threshold of that door. Mayhap that is why they had not crossed it but in his solitude Lancelot found an odd strength he was not sure he would've had if his friends had been there to instantly wrap him in condolences and comfort.

"I want to see them…now." His tone left no room for rebuke and he sat down on the edge of the soiled bed again, taking care to avoid looking at the corpse it held.

The two girls edged forward and put a baby in the crook of each of his arm's then darted out of the room. All alone with the two infants and the body of their mother, Lancelot looked at his two sons.

For once in many months, he fully appreciated that he was a father. He was responsible for the two lives he held in his hands, and yet…there was a distance in his heart. He loved them but did not love them. He realized, sadly, that it was the same sort of tug of emotion he had for Elaine. Love but not as she had wanted…not as she had deserved.

Two pairs of blue eyes stared back at him, silent and accusatory and he shook his head, "I was no good for your mother…I cannot help that I am no good for a good woman. I will try to be good for you, but I am not sure if I will ever completely succeed. I cannot control my own fate, it does not belong to me. So how can I control the fate of two children that belong to me? Are you not also Sarmatia's sons?" Tears marred his voice of a sudden.

"More then that, Lancelot." A quiet voice replied, "They are _your_ sons. They are your fate."

Vanora stepped out of the shadow where she had heard his quiet plea to his sons and stepped forward to take one of the babies from him, saying, in that same strangely quiet voice, "You'll need to find a wet-nurse for them if they have any hope of surviving."

In that quiet voice, that motherly tone, Vanora seemed to have forgiven Lancelot, just the faintest bit. For a fool you could never forgive, but a man who knew he was a fool was to be pitied because ignorance is bliss.

Speeding ahead the fire showed only glimpses of the days that followed. The men all patting Lancelot sadly on the back, telling him how much they had liked her. Asking about the children. Arthur ordering a coffin because Lancelot could not. Vanora and the wet nurse trying to convince the twins to suckle. Lancelot trying to cradle a baby in his arms as it wailed and wailed.

Suddenly the fire stopped and the image that burned the brightest was a large mound in the sad little cemetery that the knights had made just north of the wall. There was a garland of fresh flowers laid delicately on top. Beside it were two smaller mounds, each with a smaller garland of the same white, star-shaped flowers. There were two figures standing at the graves, one slightly slumped and the other with a consoling hand upon the shoulder of his comrade.

"She told me that she saw me die." Lancelot's voice was thick, "That I died for a Woad in a Queen's dress. A woman that I loved who would not love me back. She said that before I die I will know the pain of a living with a broken heart. She asked me if I would begrudge her some gladness at that…"

Arthur did not know how to respond and so he did not, he waited as Lancelot took a breath and continued, "I know I could have been better to her, but try as I might I could not make myself love her. And she knew that. She knew I did not love her and she was better to me than any wife I could ever dream of having. She loved me despite myself. She loved me enough to let me make a fool of her. She loved me enough to carry my child. To give birth not once but twice. She loved me enough to _die_ so that my bastards could live."

"She loved you, Lancelot. For whatever reason she loved you." It was all Arthur, man of so many pretty words, could say.

"She died so that those children could live…and she died in vain." He motioned to the mounds beside her, "They refused every woman in this country with milk in her breast because they could sense that it was not their mother. They withered and died when I touched them, Arthur, just as their mother did…."

"At least they are all of them in a better place, they are together now in a more peaceful, serene home then any earthly dwelling could give them…"

"Don't talk to me of heaven and angels and God at this time! If anyone in this world deserved saving it was her! Poor misguided fool as she may have been, her only flaw was that she loved! She loved a greater fool then herself…and she died for it."

At this Arthur withdrew his hand from Lancelot, "Do not say that she died because she was a fool! She made a sacrifice, do not belittle it by saying it was made by a fool."

Lancelot bowed his head, fully chastised and after a long pause said, "I feel in my bones that I will receive my just rewards for this. I will have to live through the pain I put her through…I will be made to know her dreams, her desires and, ultimately, her doom."

With that the fire flashed a face, a face as yet unknown to the men, though one say they would see that face and vaguely recognize it as it was pulled from the dungeons of a Roman's estate with eyes half dead.

Having sputtered that last omen the fire lay quiet and the men could not help but reflect on it. It was Bors' gruff voice that broke the silence as he sought to make the mood lighter, "I still want to know how Vanora knew how you were in bed."

A strained laugh passed over the company but the men seemed preoccupied with their awe in the fires power. Two men were staring at it with a strange hunger on their faces, their eyes glinted with the type of madness that only Lancelot shared. The madness of a love unfairly lost.


	3. Eara: The Dancer

Eara- The Dancer

Galahad looked long and hard into the witch's fire, his mind still reeling with what had occurred. The vivid images of Elaine and Lancelot dancing in the flames with all the men looking on as if they were the gods themselves surveying human life from the heavens. His gaze was a silent challenge to the fire; you brought back Elaine…would you resurrect Eara from her grave? If I offered my flesh for your appetite would you offer me her ghost?

The question he could barely raise to himself was whether he could cope with seeing her again…could he lose her again? Would these be like his dreams, terribly clear and leaving him desperate for her touch again?

He wanted to see her…it had been so long since….and they had had so little time together. Once he had run into his sister's room, where having been taken by a fever, her body lay and tried to rouse her from death. His father had said that the sleep of the dead is peaceful and deep; that it is a thing unholy and disrespectful to rouse them from such peace.

But then as now, he did not understand his father's words and he could only mutter an apology to Eara's ghost, _"I'm sorry to disturb you, but would you please dance for me? Dance and sing for me one last time? Then I shall let you sleep, let you sleep forever."_

And he could almost hear her reply, _"Forever is a long time not to dance!"_

When the fire sizzled the flesh on his hand he almost regretted waking her, disturbing her grave. Almost.

Like it did for Lancelot the fire sputtered and suddenly spit forth images that seemed random and unimportant before settling down and showing him what he wanted to see.

The men around the fire let a few whistles go and Galahad swallowed the urge to snap at them, "It's that girl from the village, remember? All them years ago… I guess you did fancy 'er quite a bit."

Oh he did….more then a bit.

He saw her and it was as powerful as the first time he saw her. She was dancing in a tavern, her long black hair flying all around her, her golden eyes glittering with mirth. Golden eyes….they had captured him then as they captured him now….two priceless jewels boring into him and making him feel unworthy to behold such a face. He was young then, easily embarrassed, and sat down on a stool, his cheeks reddened with the knowledge that she had caught him staring. Drinking deeply from his tankard he saw Gawain take a seat next to him and Gareth, his elder brother, on his other side, but he did not see the dancer creep up beside him.

When Galahad turned to see who had tapped his shoulder he nearly choked on his ale, much to the amusement of Gawain and his brother.

"You are new to town?" She asked her voice gliding over the syllables as her feet glided over the floor.

Galahad nodded and mumbled, "Passing through."

She smiled, "Passing through? Then you shall have to dance with me this instant! The Gods forbid that you should pass me by!"

She grabbed his hand where it had fallen limply to his side, her warm skin had a tinge of sweat on it from her earlier excursions and her fingernails were bitten near bleeding, and yet it was he who felt dirty, he felt as though he'd not bathed in over a week and as much was true. He felt as though he was soiling her merely by touching her and tried to back out, saying lamely that he could not dance. At which point Gawain and Gareth pushed him out of his chair.

He would thank them for that for the rest of his life.

The life jumped ahead, but not before Gawain spilled a bit of wine on the ground for his dead brother. In the next scene Eara and Galahad were standing in a clearing looking at the half moon and the stars.

"I have good news and bad news." Galahad approached her solemnly.

Golden eyes searched his face for clues, "You're….you're leaving?"

Nodding grimly, "Yes that's the bad news, I'm afraid."

Eara sat on the ground, pouting, "Then what's the good news?"

Galahad kneeled next to her with a devilish smile on his face, "We don't leave until after the full moon."

Eara squealed in delight, "Truly? Truly!"

Hopelessly happy and enthralled in her companion Eara threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his urgently, "Oh, Galahad I thought I was losing you!"

He returned her kisses; they had a fervor they'd not had before, a sort of desperation he understood all too well. Her fingers laced through his hair and would not let him rise from her lips even to breathe, her legs locked themselves around his hips, forbidding him from leaving…it was not as though he tried to get away though, he was happy in this prison.

Eara's loose gown was too thin, too tempting for him. He had known so few women at this point and was young enough to be impatient to learn more quickly. Clumsy fingers worked at her bodice and she didn't stop him even as the cool night air bit at her exposed skin. His hands slid over her breasts as her hands she slid her hands up his shirt. Long moments of exploration as her bodice loosened more and more until she was half naked, that was when she pulled away from their kiss.

"Galahad…" Her voice was raspy with restrained passion and it did little to sooth his raging blood, rather it heated him more, "Galahad listen to me…." She put a hand out to stop him from claiming another kiss.

"What is it, Eara?" He asked, his mind slowly clearing the fogs of lust from his brain.

She closed her gown over her breasts, earning her a disgruntled grunt from Bors, at whom Galahad threw a rock before focusing on the scene.

"I've misled you and it'd not be the first time men are misled by me."

"What? I don't understand." His brows furrowed.

"I'm no barmaid for soldiers to keep as a pet, no bed-warmer. Galahad… I am a dancer, I dance for the men and I know how to make men want me, it's their want that pays for my food and my clothes…."

"But?" There was always a 'but'.

"I'm not a whore. I'm…." She took a breath and gauged his reaction, "I'll not be a pretty blanket to warm a cold bed…not even for a face as fair as yours."

His cheeks were as red as the fire around him and as he looked at himself he couldn't help but crack a smile, ever blushing he was, still fresh and young and new. How long ago had that been? At the time he had only been five years from his home and had not yet been hardened by battle enough to be heartless.

The Galahad in the scene nodded mumbling an apology as he straightened his clothes. The fire did not show her stand up and lace her gown agonizingly slowly in front of him, but it did show him walking her home, still mortally embarrassed. When he reached her door he was finally forced to look into her eyes and once that occurred, he could not look away.

"Eara….." He placed a quick kiss on her cheek and walked away.

The fire leaped forward in time, showing scene of their eyes meeting across the crowded tavern, showing her briefly throw her skirts up in a dance her eyes flashing in his direction as she did so. The fire settled on a sleeping Galahad, the moon outside his window nearly ¾ full. His door opened and a shadowy figure slipped in, dancer's feet noiseless on the earthen floor. Eara watched him as he slept for a moment, soothing his brow, it did not yet hold the deep lines of premature worry yet, and she whispered his name.

"Galahad." It was as though the wind itself was calling him, her whisper was so breathy and weightless around the syllables, "Galahad."

When he chanced to open his eyes he saw Eara before him and nearly yelped in surprise but she pressed a finger to his lips in a hurry, "Shh, I had to sneak passed your friends to get here. I did not think your commander would appreciate this."

"Eara," he whispered as she released his lips, "what are you doing here?"

"This." And she lowered her head, capturing his lips as they opened in surprise. Galahad fell into the kisses easy pace, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek; he let loose a delighted moan.

_This is a dream_, he thought, but the taste of her was too real. This was no dream.

He opened his eyes and pulled away from her, "Why are you here…I thought…?"

Eara's eyes fell to her feet, "I know what I said…but you have plagued my mind both asleep and awake. I cannot look at you without wanting you…I know not what I feel but I know I cannot betray it anymore."

With that she brought her hands to the fastenings of her cloak and loosed them, revealing a sheer under-dress beneath it. Reaching up she pushed the straps of the dress down and it fell until her hips caught it.

Still half thinking this was some glorious dream Galahad drew her down to him and possessed her, grasping at her like rays of moonlight as dawn approaches. The only difference was she was still there in the morning. Thankfully the fire spared him the humiliation of his friends seeing his bedwork. Though Lancelot was cocky enough not to care, Galahad cared not to be judged so by his peers. It was a private skill, and best left privately judged he thought.

There was no master over the flames and they jumped curiously ahead to a full mooned night, the light of the giant sphere shining on the woods like veiled sunshine. Galahad was waiting, waiting for her to come to him where she promised she would. A light singing announced her presence as she finally joined him in the tree circle.

She flew into his arms delightedly and he swung her around in a circle, kissing her cheek in greeting, "Is there any particular reason we're outside in the cold tonight?"

Eara kissed the tip of his nose, "So that you catch a cold and don't have to leave tomorrow."

He managed a weak smile at her joke but could not laugh to it, "I hate to be reminded that we're leaving tomorrow….I've still not completely convinced Arthur that we'll have a need to stop here on our way back."

"Have you convinced him to let me stay with the company?" Eara asked in a voice that had asked the question many times before to the same end.

"I'll not even voice such madness, we're headed to pick up soldiers that are weak, injured and on the edge of reason. We cannot be looking after a woman as well, not to mention it is a very long strenuous journey back to our base. Strenuous for men that were born in a saddle… the timing isn't right for you to come with us."

She pouted, "The others have brought back women from other villages."

Galahad drew her closer and rubbed her arms, "Must we fight about this again? The answer will not change Eara, you cannot ride with us."

Had he not been so wrapped up in his pretty young lover, he might have realized that they were not alone in this clearing any longer. A pair of dark eyes watched them, eyes that had been searching for days, were hungry for sights besides trees and grass and sky. And those eyes bore into the scene before them, and ears listened to the conversation, drinking it up greedily.

"Woad women ride to war." He could not make her pout disappear.

"You are not a woad, darling."

"I'm half of a woad!" Eara finally sighed in defeat, "Oh, you stubborn ass! You'll not even risk my presence despite the rewards it would render you."

"Perhaps I'd bring you along if it were not toward possible battle. You don't know battle-weary Romans like I do, whether the Woads are more vicious or the Romans are I know not." Galahad stroked her cheek, "Must we spend our last night arguing?"

Eara gave a reluctant smile, "Of course not…I planned to spend it under the lover's moon."

"Did you, nature child?" Galahad cocked an eyebrow, "Did you forget that it is cold under the lover's moon and the night could be equally well spent under blankets in a bed?"

Eara wrapped her arms around Galahad, "Fear not, I'll warm you."

Her fingers were already at work to the lacings of his shirt and she drew it off, taking a moment to trace her fingers over the elaborate designs on Galahad's arms.

"Barbarian." She teased and turned her lips to finer work. Absorbed in the kiss Galahad was oblivious to the intake of breath in the forest, a foreign whisper _"Woad ink!"_

Fingers more familiar with gown fastenings then a few days ago loosened the gown between him and Eara and pushed it passed her hips and to the ground. He backed Eara up until she was against a tree, her fingers working the lacings of his britches.

The fabric fell to his ankles and he quickly stepped out of it and kicked it aside, before drawing her tightly to him with a hiss at the cold air.

All around the fire eyes flew to Galahad, who did an excellent impression of the boy in the flames and blushed furiously. It seemed that the fire had no sense of decency.

There was no censorship as her legs wrapped around his waist and her nails drew lines across his back….Gods it seemed that the fire held their bodies for hours, entwined in an ancient dance ….finally she cried his name to the night air and he loosed hers on a ragged breath.

The couple sank to the ground, Eara's head resting on Galahad's chest and their eyes silently speaking. As she traced abstract patterns on his chest, she cleared her throat, "Tell me what's happening tomorrow… you've told me so little. Only that you're going and that I cannot come. You mention Roman soldiers and a long ride back to the base…what do these things mean?"

The onlooker in the foliage leaned forward in anticipation as Galahad stroked her raven feather hair, "There is a troop of Romans, they have been out here long and they are weary with the time and the ill effects of too many raids without enough men. We shall ride out from this place tomorrow at dawn and hope to catch them by the river side before nightfall…."

"All of you need ride out to a ragged party of Romans?"

"Yes of course, it is either a party of Romans take them or a party of Woads…which would you rather?"

_"Which indeed!" Hissed the voice of the watcher, "Which indeed!" _

The witness left the woods then, as unobtrusively as he had entered and he sprinted toward his horse, to ride away. The rest of the scene with Galahad and Eara continued as if they had not been watched, and indeed they did not know they had been.

"If we don't help them the Woads are liable to attack them while they're weak."

"You're Sarmatian, not Roman. Why must you do these things?" Eara cuddled her head to his chest as he answered, "I was born condemned to do this service, just as my father and his father back hundreds of years. All sons of Sarmatia are so damned."

"But why _my_ son of Sarmatia?" Tears glistened in Eara's eyes for the first time since they'd met, "I know little, but I know where I want to be and it is right here, with you. A difficult place to be when you're saving Romans from themselves."

Galahad kissed her forehead, "Hush now, I shall not always be saving Romans from themselves…" A wicked smile crept onto his face, "Sometimes I rescue pretty maids in distress."

She playfully slapped him, "Am I not distressed enough for you?"

"Nay, but you're pretty enough for me!"

Gentle laughter faded with the scene as the fire consumed it and marched forth mercilessly. Galahad drew closer to the flame, wondering what would happen. When they watched Lancelot's story, there had been pieces that he had not been part of, parts that were new to him as well as the others and Galahad so prayed to see such moments for his own tale.

Red flames licked at the edge of Eara's dress as she embraced Galahad one last time before he mounted his horse. Golden eyes seemed dimmed to a rusty brown in her sadness, and he caught her chin in his hand forcing her to look into his eyes, "Don't be so sad, Eara, I shall come back for you...I know not when or how I shall manage it but I shall return…I doubt if I've the strength to dance alone."

A sad smile lit on her face, "Neither shall I...so don't be long."

It leapt forward once more…odd that it should land on something none present had ever seen. The spy from the woods was riding furiously, stopping when he reached a party of ragged looking soldiers bearing a Roman flag.

"Sir! Sir!"

"What is it?" A commander asked the scout, "Found something?"

"Indeed sir! A young Woad soldier and his lover in the woods discussing how there is to be a party riding out to overtake us while we are weak!"

"You are sure of this?"

"He wore barbarian designs on his arms in ink, and she's a Woad-child. They don't mix outside their own species, woads. Also what Roman beds a woman outside? And what decent woman would rut under the lover's moon with a barbarian inked man? He spoke of our location, spoke of our condition; Sir they know where we are and they are coming."

The commander thought for a moment before turning to his camp, "Get ready to ride! Bring the injured…leave the dead! An ambush is coming!"

As he turned to go the scout grabbed his arm, "Sir…there was a village not far from the couple, a Woad village no doubt. We could go quietly through the woods as they are planning to take us beside the river…then we could take supplies from the village and hope for a rescue." The commander nodded appreciatively, "And that's what we shall do!"

"No!" Galahad growled, "You bastard! You deaf bastard!" But the men in the dancing flames did not hear him, they began packing, began readying and the flames moved on.

They focused on Eara, sulking about the bar where she and Galahad had first eyed each other. An older woman came up behind her clucking disapprovingly, "You held out all this time against men, and you falter in your resolve for a boy."

"He's no boy, nana! He's a soldier!" She snapped defensively, "And I would hardly call it a falter in resolve, it was a determined break of resolve. One I would gladly commit again."

The old woman shook her head, "You would say that! Your head full of air and your heart full of tree sap that clings to every movement he makes! Every word he says! He says he will return and now you sulk around impatiently awaiting his return…child he may never come back."

"Don't say that…he wouldn't lie to me, nana. And he wouldn't abandon me here."

"And what is it that makes you so certain?"

"I will not, cannot, dance without him. He would not cut my legs from my body and he will not leave me here to sit on a bench eternally waiting."

"You can dance without him, girl, and you best learn. Men come and go from women's beds as they please and all that can ever come of it is…"

"Oh enough of your bitterness at men!" Eara growled, her eyes blazing, "Just because your Sarmatian knight left you alone in this world does not mean mine will leave me!"

"He did not leave me alone, Eara, he left me with your mother! And I will thank you to remember that she named you in his memory…you are a daughter of the East born in this cold, cruel West."

"Then he will surely return to me…he misses his home and will cling to any part of it…even a dancing girl from a small village. And should I bear a child from our union I would not bear it alone!...And if fate would have me do it I shall name the child for him, and I shall tell it of it's father, the man who made me ache for a dancing partner."

"Ache for a partner but not for the type of dancing you normally do!"

Her grandmother huffed agitatedly and walked away, shaking her head and muttering to herself. Galahad watched the exchange and his heart went out to Eara, from what he had just seen of Elaine and Eara he would be loathe to take another lover and leave her again…it was so difficult for the women who fell from grace to defend themselves when their lover's were gone from their lives. And children! How many children had Arthur's company left in their wake? If the growing number of bastards Bors had at the keep was any reference, Galahad himself was a father many times over and yet… he'd never seen nor heard of a child he'd fathered. What if he hadn't returned for Eara? What if she had borne a child? How would she take care of it, live with it as a reminder everyday, knowing that he who had so burdened her was off burdening another?

He resolved then to celibacy, or at least to make due with significantly fewer women… maybe one day he would take a wife, but the ghosts of the dead still haunted him and until he could sleep through a night without their howling he'd not burden a wife with his demons.

When he looked up next at the flames, his thoughts clear from his head, Eara's ears perked up, and her face brightened, "Horses! I hear horses, nana!"

As she ran outside Galahad shook with pent up emotion, wanting to plead to the memory but knowing his pleas would change nothing. _Don't go out there, please, don't go out there._

The fire showed nothing except Eara's face, excited, smiling broadly at the prospect of the knights coming back so soon. The seconds were painfully long as she squinted at the riders, then a look of stark fright as she realized these were not friendly riders. The last thing the damned flame issued was a terrified shriek.

When the picture cleared from the smoke it showed a figure hunched over in the dark. The clearer the picture became the more apparent it became that this was not some drunk slumped over in a stupor, this was someone bound tied to a stake in the ground that they could not move from. Not just any figure.

"Eara…" Galahad's voice cracked on the words as he stared open mouthed at the scene, this mystery between his leaving and his return had always haunted him. Now he was see, at long last he would know….he just hoped he didn't come to regret his desire to know.

The Roman commander and the scout were in front of her, the commander speaking gravely, "I'll ask you once more politely, woad, where did your lover and his troop of blue-stained demons go? Eh? Toward water? Inland? Tell me!"

Eara looked at him with big, doe eyes, the look in them was that of a cornered animal, confused and wild, "I told you, my lover is a _Roman_ soldier! Not a woad! _Not a woad_! And I don't know where they went! They went to find you, how they went I do not know! Believe me! Please, believe me!"

The commander nodded at the scout, who slapped her smartly across her mouth. The fire flickered through the lengthy sessions of pain. The knights caught glimpses of a tooth being spat out in a wad of blood. Then the red-hot tip of a sword being drawn across an exposed breast. They heard, more then saw, the force of a punch to her torso that was highlighted with the deafening crack of more then one rib. More sickening than that was the sharp _cr_r_rack!_... as fingers and toes were broken.

All the while the dancer screamed in torment, cried out for mercy, for salvation, for a relief that did not come.

The fire showed a more familiar scene. The knights were approaching the village they had left a few days ago having failed to fine the Roman soldiers at the position they were supposed to maintain. Tristan had found tracks leading from the abandoned Roman camp littered with graves back to the British village.

Galahad once more felt his stomach dropped to his knees the moment they crossed the barrier into the village, immediately he sensed something was gravely amiss, they all did. Even the horses knickered suspiciously at the woods they had previously loved. There was a darkness in the trees now, they sagged against their own trunks as though shouldering a heavy burden. Their branched drooped to the ground and the wind passed through them with a sound like quiet weeping.

He saw the Roman scout outside the tent, the man charged at him, eyes locked, yelling, "Woad! Woad! _He is the woad!_"

His commander put a restraining hand on his shoulder and met Arthur's gaze, both men came to the same chilling conclusion: There had been a mistake of identity.

Arthur spoke first, "Commander Jaenus, you were not at your appointed position. We have been searching for you. I am Arthur Castus and these are …"

"The _Sarmatian_ knights." The commander looked slightly ill, "_Sarmatian_."

"Indeed." Arthur cocked an eyebrow curiously.

"We…we were informed, mistakenly informed, that the party approaching us consisting of woads planning to overtake us while we were weak. Instead of waiting we…we decided to charge this village. Taking supplies and stealing information. Perhaps standing for a brief fight against our enemies."

The man's gaze did not settle Galahad's nervous stomach and he spoke, "Is that your scout?"

The Roman officer, although still green-faced, looked offended that Galahad should address him but the scout saved him the response, "I am!"

"Why did you call me a woad?"

"You're painted like one. You acted as one…"

"And how would you know how I act?" Galahad interrupted.

"I…I saw you with a woad girl. In the woods doing _heathen_ things."

For a beat Galahad's heart stopped, and every knight near him grabbed him to keep him from going after the scout.

The fired faded, leaving the commander's dim voice, "She's in there."

Coming into focus was the inside of the room they had earlier seen, it still contained Eara…or what was left of her. On the ground she lay, in a puddle of dark blood that was mixing with the dirt to produce a hellish mud. One eye was swollen shut and her lips had a ragged cut through them, her neck, arms and legs were full of bruises. Her exposed back had whip marks over it while her naked breasts revealed burns. Her fingers and toes were at odd angles, some would probably never fully heal.

All the men recalled that horrid sight. They all remembered how Galahad had dropped to his knees and just blankly stared at her, there were a few tears but mostly a sharp, steely edge coming into his face until he burst out of the tent and had to be pulled off the scout and the commander by Gawain and Gareth with Dagonet giving a look to the angry Roman soldiers, ready to fall into the fray to protect their brothers, that the Sarmatians would not hesitate to strike them down. The wise fire, knowing the men had witnessed this, skipped it and revealed something further along.

Galahad held one of her broken hands gently in his own and watched as she struggled for breath, her good eye half open and looking at him frankly.

"You're not going to die." He said in a flat tone.

"Don't…be….stupid." She gave a weak cough the flecked blood onto her blanket, "Of course…I am."

"No…" He kissed a tender kiss on the hand he held, "You can't. You don't deserve to…you….you did _nothing_."

Stealing herself for the phrase she said, "Sometimes, nothing is everything."

Another cough wracked her body and she winced at the pain it caused. He stayed with her, watched over her, constantly muttering "I'm sorry" and each time he did she would give a small, firm shake of her head as if to say _You have nothing to be sorry for_.

The night after they had discovered her, it was clear that the broken rib was filling one of her lungs with blood…slowly but surely she would drown in it. Breathing became more labored, coughing became hell itself.

And yet she longed for laughter. The men, watching, could hear all these things as though she said them. They even saw that, just as the sun was rising, she shook Galahad's hand to call attention to herself.

"Galahad…." A cough interrupted her and sprayed a fair amount of blood onto her blanket, which was marked with various stains from before, "Galahad…I want it to end."

"Eara…no." He petted her hand.

"Yes, it's…it's too much." Her breathing came with the rasp of a horse who's been run to death, however the foam at her mouth was red not white.

He shook his head, tears making him squint as he did. He was so young to love, too young really, and who's to say he did? But the loss struck him. It struck him more powerfully then she had when they met, this looming emptiness that would soon overtake her temporary placement in his heart.

"May I…May I see your knife?"

He numbly handed it to her and she weakly raised it high above her head, staring at the shiny blade, mesmerized by how the early light of dawn played on the metal. Faintly flickering her wrist she gave a small smile, whispering, "Look, Galahad! What a pretty dancer she is!"

The fire focused on the twirling dagger and then moved to Galahad's face, a ghost of a smile was on his lips, mingled with sporadic tears, but then the smile was overtaken by a pained flinch. And his eyes closed for being unable to look at her body.

And it was the body next showed by the fire, the broken body of an innocent girl, tortured by mistake for information that did not exist, with her lover's dagger embedded into her chest, a look of utter calm on her face, of utter merriment…the same look she had worn the first night that had seen her, mesmerizing as she danced across the floor.

The knights were all silent, looking at Galahad and seeing, with the aid of hindsight, that Eara, however unimportant to them, was his changing point. His growing up stage. The point in his life when he saw the roses die, unjustly murdered by a rogue frost in the midst of spring. This was the time he began lusting for home, for that one aspect of his life unscarred by such injustice…by such utter ugliness.

They saw his quest now, for an unsullied, immaculate shrine of love and protection…they saw him hunger for _home_…even though, they all thought darkly, such things existed in home too. His child's eyes had not seen such things, but they all felt for Galahad at this moment. For when he returned home, and they knew he would, he would be looking for fifteen years of hell to be erased. Fifteen years of death, gore, bloodshed and pain to be rendered into ashes by the presence of purity in his home. And they all pitied him, for Galahad would never have peace, not of the kind he wanted.

For when he returned to Sarmatia, the first thing he would see would be the blackened corpse of roses, overtaken by a frost. He could not undo the dark things that had been done, as much as he would like.

And worst of all….Galahad would never dance again.


	4. Isotta: The Devoted

Isotta- The Devoted

After seeing what had happened to Lancelot and Galahad when they'd dared to test the flames, Tristran was overcome by something. Not a desire….a need. The flames had shown images of women the other two cared about, perhaps even loved…would they show… _her_? The other two events had happened not overly long ago…would it matter that his had taken place so much earlier? Before the other's had ever known him? Would he finally see her again? After all these years would he finally be able to see her face?

He had to know. Tristran stared into the fire for a moment, debating it. Could he take her death again? Could he share these memories with the others?

If it meant seeing her, yes. He would brave the hell the Christians so feared to see her again….or maybe he had borne that hell for years.

When Lancelot touched the flame it was accidental, Galahad had done so briefly, as if it took that second of bravery to make him do it and his resolve could be broken just as swiftly. He almost regretted it.

Tristran held his hands by the fire to warm them for a moment before diving one straight into the flames. He held it there longer then most men could, relishing the pain as his punishment for waking her spirit from its rest.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Bors cried, "You need that hand!"

And then….

He saw her, there in the flames. Dear Gods she was…..she was exactly as she was when he had first seen her. Her hair was loose spare for two braids pulled back from her face. Her hair was a deep, rich red-brown with curls that begged to be touched. She had a pale heart-shaped face with a light dusting of freckles and big hazel eyes. When she saw him she stopped in her tracks, her breath even caught in her chest and she just stared at him. He wasn't much of a sight, having been traveling to Ireland for 6 months and was slightly embarrassed that he'd not even bathed before she saw him. But she smiled at him and bowed her head, rushing over to him.

"Are you the man from Sarmatia?"

He nodded, "Yes."

She smiled, "I'm Isotta, lady of this land."

He bowed his head to her, "Tristran, I'm Lord Mark's nephew."

Isotta curtsied to him, "You must be terribly weary, it's a long journey you've been on. I'll show you to your room."

Tristran couldn't keep his eyes off of her; she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

That scene faded into the burning logs and was quickly replaced by a scene of them on a boat, she was looking longingly in their wake when he came up behind her, "Do you miss your home?"

"Yes, and my brother." She turned to face him and her spirits seemed to lift a little, "Because company on this ship is awful."

They laughed comfortably and she began wringing her hands with nervousness, "I miss the music. I love music and the only sound here is that of the sea."

Tristran couldn't bear that she was unhappy and he did something he never did, he began singing to her, a simple song he had learned from the men that had crossed into Ireland with him but when he was done her eyes gazed up at him with approval, "You sing wonderfully."

He blushed, "Thank you. It's a gift I hardly ever use; my harp is always dusty with neglect."

"You play?" She asked, her face seemed to light up.

"Occasionally."

"Oh! What I wouldn't give to hear a harp." There was excitement in her voice at the prospect of music, he couldn't let her down. He'd find a harp if he had to swim back to Ireland for one.

And so he found one and played for her, his own was at home probably rotting away in his room but he had borrowed one from a crewman and after a few minutes of reminding his fingers of harp strings he played her magnificent song after magnificent song. He never sang, he never played, though they were traits others recognized in him he preferred to keep them to himself. And now he was playing for Isotta, and he would be happy to play for her for the rest of time.

That scene melted away into the next, a full moon hung low over the sea when a knock came to Tristran's door.

"Who is it?"

"Isotta."

He quickly let her in, in the past few months since they had met he had only become fonder of her and it would not be the first time she had come to fetch him and insisted they walk or at least talk. Especially now because he was the only companion she had on this ship, so she said.

"What is it?" He asked when she walked into the room instead of asking him to come out of it. This was scandalous, a young maid unattended in a man's chambers late at night? Especially when her hand was promised? He thought something was wrong, though he hoped not and a secret part of him longed for her to stay, longed for her presence and companionship as he had grown to crave it desperately.

She sat on his bed and traced the outline of the faded quilt on it, "Can you tell me about your uncle?"

He sat beside her, _was this all that bothered her?_

"What would you like to know?"

"The truth. Nothing more, nothing less. I know nothing about him except that you're his nephew. Is he much like you?"

"No, we're not alike. Perhaps there's a little family resemblance but….he is more comfortable being the lord of the land, I prefer fighting for it."

"What else?"

"He's older, there's gray starting to come to his beard. I've never known him to be unjust…." _He is not the one here now who longs to touch you. He is simply the man who bought you; you are to be his for no other reason then your title. _

"Will I be happy with him?" She looked worried, anxious for the answer to a question that, having leapt off of the lips it had so impatiently waited on, was begging to be answered.

Tristran studied her for a long moment, he couldn't lie, "I…hope so. I truly do."

She put a hand on his cheek and bore her eyes into his, "Tristran, tell me plainly. Do you think I'll be happy with Mark?"

His eyes seeped into her's, "No."

She looked away, her voice soft, "Why not?"

He raised her chin so that she was looking at him, "Because he's not me."

Tristran leaned forward and captured her lips before she could mutter a single word. He'd been dreaming of this for months, wanting her and holding back. If she refused him, at least he'd told her what he felt. He broke the kiss and whispered against her lips, "I love you, Isotta."

"Oh Tristran…." The words were lost as she quickly fell into another kiss; she draped her arms around his neck as he pulled her against him, holding her tighter, closer. She moaned as he deepened the kiss, and returned his fervor with her own.

He could still feel that first kiss, the sweetest taste in his mouth that set a fire in his body, even looking at the scene from a distance he could recall every detail, every strand of her hair caught in his fingers, the smell of her skin, the feel of the sea breeze, the sound of her soft moans. He knew what was coming and almost regretted that the others could see it, this was private, between he and her only and always. But he could not control the flames. And it was little worse then what they'd seen of Galahad this eve.

She pulled back from him, "I don't want to be Mark's."

He was breathing hard and took a moment before answering, "I don't want it either, but it's beyond our power."

She cocked her head to the side as though she'd been struck by a realization, "No it's not."

Tristran looked at her, puzzled by her words. Isotta reaching in back of her dress and began pulling at the ties, he didn't understand, "What are you—"

But he never finished because the top of her dress fell to her waist. His pulse doubled, his blood raced heatedly throughout his body, "Isotta…."

She brought her hands to his face and caught his gaze, lifting it from her chest to her face, "Make me yours, Tristran. Claim me so that he'll never have me."

He drew her against him, more so that he couldn't stare at her and be tempted but it helped little as he could still feel her breasts through his clothes, "Isotta this cannot be taken lightly. There is no going back…"

"I know that, which is why it's my gift to you. I am yours, Tristran." She pulled back a little so that their faces were almost touching, "I love you."

Tristran leaned forward and caught her lips, gently; his hands slid up her sides and around her back to the laces of her dress and finished loosening them. The scene died before she was exposed for the others to see, but Tristran saw the rest of that night play behind his eyes. His darling Isotta…they had only been a few weeks at sea by then but they had been in Ireland for months. Finishing her wedding dress, packing her things and then they were delayed by weather. He thought that it would be a year at least until they were in his uncle's home in Sarmatia and in that time so much had happened…

The next scene came swiftly, almost harshly.

Her hair was matted to her head with sweat and her face was contorted in strength and pain. She gripped his hand so hard he felt his fingers might break but he scarcely noticed. Isotta was breathing hard, obeying her maids who kept telling her to push. She bore down and heaved. An ear-splitting scream escaped her lips and Tristran was beyond everything he knew, he was completely out of his element, and he knew that she was doing something he could never comprehend, feeling a pain that was beyond any man's mind.

Then suddenly a sharp cry echoed through the room.

Everything in the world seemed to stop….a baby's cry….._his_ baby's cry. His face broke into a huge smile and he kissed Isotta's forehead, whispering reverently, "It's over, darling, it's over."

"Wh….wha-what is it?" All the screaming had made her voice rough and dry, "Let me see it…….give it to me!"

She released his hand, the circulation finally returning to his fingers but it wasn't for his hand that he felt so relieved. 16 hours of labor, 16 hours of waiting and worrying and his child was finally born, finally here. The maids serving as midwives wrapped the baby in blankets and handed it to Isotta who cried as soon as she saw it. Tristran leaned over her.

"What is it?" He asked as he reached out a shaking hand to touch it.

The maid smiled, "A boy."

"A boy." Isotta echoed and began cooing to the baby, who was no longer crying, merely watching his parents as if wondering who they were. Tristran gently smoothed the dark cap of hair on the infants head and as he brought his hand back the baby grabbed one of his fingers with his little fist.

Isotta gave a tired laugh, "He's already so much like you, dark hair, strong hands….oh he's perfect."

The baby's head was slightly pointed, it was bloody still and wriggling madly, trying to suckle Tristran's finger, there were bruises on the baby's shoulder's he saw, "Why are there bruises on him?"

"Tis normal, love. I'll have a few in the morning too." Isotta smiled at the babe, her whole face was glowing, her eyes never leaving their son, "You'll have no luck with your father's finger if you're looking for milk."

She gently pried Tristran's finger from the child's mouth and the babe wailed until she showed it to her breast, where it began suckling, immediately happy and quiet. Tristran gently ran his fingers down the babe's pudgy arm.

He took in the sight before him, Isotta holding their child, and knew that there was nothing more beautiful in all the world, that as long as he lived this would be the scene of home that would comfort him, this would be the innocence that he protected, that he would kill for, die for.

"Drustan." She cooed, suddenly looking up at her lover, "Shall we call him Drustan?"

"Drustan?" Tristran played the name on his tongue, it felt right.

Isotta nodded and lovingly stroked the babe's back, "It's a tradition in my home, to name the son like the father so that the boy grows up to be like his father."

Tristran smiled broadly and nodded, "Drustan."

Just as they kissed, cementing the love that they were risking everything for, the scene darkened and leapt forward.

Isotta was standing next to Tristran, "Oh I just can't give him up."

Tristran stroked her cheek, "We can't keep him, not so close to my uncle, Mark will figure it out, then Drustan's in danger. And so are we. We have to send him away to be fostered. It's the safest thing. We'll see him, I swear it, I swear I won't just sever us from our child completely….but he cannot remain with us."

Isotta gave a heavy nod, "If you insist, at least for a time….maybe we can bring him to our court when he's older?"

Her maternal connection to the babe was so much greater then his paternal, he could see in her eyes the great struggle, but she would do what was best for the child. A great swell of love for little Drustan swept over him, and guilt that he had to send him away, "If that's what you want, Isotta, we'll find a way to bring him to Mark's court when he's older."

Isotta smiled sadly and kissed her baby's head, "Oh, precious…I'm going to miss you so….but you'll be safe with your uncle….safe and happy. He'll take good care of you."

She handed the wriggling mass over to Tristran who cradled his firstborn with a gentleness many did not know he possessed; he kissed the child who proceeded to pull one of his braids. He had no parting words for the bundle; he would save his words for his son for when the boy was old enough to understand them. Then he gently gave the child over to one of the trusted servants of Isotta's house and as they rode on to Mark's domain, they chanced a look back at the port. Isotta worried her bottom lip until it nearly bled and Tristran grabbed her hand, kissing it, "He'll be safe with your brother, darling."

"That doesn't mean I won't stop worrying about him."

The scene died and another one began, months later. Isotta was sitting beside a big, wild haired man with gray shooting through his black mane. She was dressed all in white and had a forced smile on her face. The man kept sweeping her onto his lap and whispering in her ear, she didn't seem amused by any of. She kept his cup full, though, she knew that everything depended on his ability, or lack there of, to distinguish her from another red-haired woman.

By the time they got to their room, he could barely walk straight. She told him that she would be back momentarily and quickly ran into her room, where her maid Brigitte, was dressed in her best night gown, her hair, the same hue as her mistress', was down from all its braids and in the dark they looked like sisters. Isotta felt badly for the girl, she had asked her to surrender her virginity to Mark posing as Isotta, for Isotta's was long since given away. The girl might well be killed for following her mistress' orders.

"Brigitte," Isotta hugged the maid, "Thank you…..thank you so much."

The girl nodded and went into the other room; Isotta quickly pulled on a night gown identical to the one Brigitte was wearing and wrapped a cloak around herself. She found Tristran's room and knocked first. When he asked who it was she gave the birdcall he had taught her and the door was flung open.

"Did it work? Was he fooled?"

"We shall soon find out." She closed the door behind her and let her cloak drop to the floor. Tristran brought her against him, just holding her there and stroking her soft curls, "If my uncle realizes he's been had, we'll have to leave _very_ quickly. Two horses are in the woods on the border of the town, if we can reach them I can lead us through the forest by night….we'll get to be with our son, at least."

"But even so, we have to hope that he doesn't find out…it would be death for us both if he did."

Tristran kissed her forehead and held her close, eventually he laid her on the bed and they sat up all night, listening for the guards that would be coming for their blood, but dawn came and Isotta sank back into her husband's bed, trading places with her now sullied maid, and sighed with relief. For today, at least, she and Tristran were safe.

The next day began raging in the fire, they were sitting down to supper, Tristran was sitting on his 'aunt's' left side, her husband was on her right. When the wine was poured Mark stood, his goblet raised, "A toast to the brave Roman knights who witnessed my wedding last night and have joined our table this eve, as my wife's people would say, may the wind be always at your back." Mark took his seat and everyone took a sip for the Roman's health even though every Sarmatian man in the room held naught but contempt in his heart for the child-thieves masquerading as soldiers. Some of the Romans barely noticed Mark, their gaze fell to his new wife and when the commanding officer bowed his head to Mark, his eyes never left her, "Your house offers naught but pleasures to the Romans…."

Tristran gripped Isotta's knee under the table, she wasn't theirs, she was his and if they tried to touch her he'd castrate them.

"…tis a pity we will leave you in sorrow ere a fortnight has passed."

The Sarmatians in the room understood his words but Isotta was confused, "Why may I ask, will we be left in sorrow?"

The man looked at her oddly, "We came not here on a social call, lady, we came to collect soldiers. The young men here are to serve with the Roman forces in Briton."

"Ah, tis a pity then. How long will they be serving?"

The Romans looked irked at her questions; they were not used to women speaking to them unless spoken to, "Fifteen years, not including the many months it takes to make the journey to Briton."

"And a long journey it is," Isotta nodded, "Briton is not overly far from my homeland, and it took half a year for Tristran to make the distance in fair weather traveling light and a little over a year during the harsh seasons with companions."

"Then we shall be much pleased to have him with us, he will be familiar with the paths, more so then some of the others at any rate."

Her eyes widened, her face fell, "Tristran is to go with you?"

Beside her his grip tightened on her knee, his face was stony, _Don't give away our secret, Isotta, mind yourself._

"You seem very upset….did your _nephew_," the man obviously found the title amusing, "not tell you on the _long, lonely,_" the implication of the words was not lost on the young lovers, "journey back to Sarmatia?"

Isotta took a breath and spoke, "Nay…this saddens me greatly. Just as I have a family, part of it is being taken away."

The Romans saw the way she looked at Tristran, the way he held her gaze and his face softened for a moment. If she was going to leave her husband's bed this night, they knew to whom's she would wander. The pity was, Mark noticed as well.

Days flashed by every second, Tristran and Isotta in a niche, her legs around his waist, his lips on her throat. Even at meals they were constantly flirting and talking, her attention was wholly on him. Mark took great notice of this, he began separating them at mealtimes but the distance did not stay their attraction. After dinner they would dance to the music, with eyes only for each other. Short scenes flitted through the flames again, he was teaching her to shoot a bow, she would sit in front of him on the saddle as he did tricks. They found a fledgling hawk together and she would spend hours with him, helping him care for it. They were always walking together, talking, touching….even the wisp of her hand against his seemed lustful. And Mark's eyes were not blind to this. When her husband was drunk and snored heavily she raced to Tristran's room only to slip out just before dawn.

One scene lingered, after dinner Tristran and Isotta immediately began to dance, and danced so long together that Mark stormed from the room. He knew, he just knew in his heart that his nephew was stealing his wife from him. Mark went out for air, a guard, with axe at the ready, stood at the door just behind the raging man. He drew in deep breaths and thought he had calmed. A new harpist began to play, a new one that Mark had become fond of, the boy was young and Mark believed skilled. Mark was enjoying the boy's music until suddenly Isotta clapped her hands loudly, "Enough! Enough of this! The coarseness of the tune is painful to my ears! I fear they'll bleed in agony!"

The boy stuttered an apology but she flicked her wrist, he was not important to her, her eyes locked with Tristran's, "Tristran, will you play me something sweet to sooth my aching ears?"

He smiled at her and politely took up his harp and began singing to her a love song, full of declarations of the humble farmer's adoration for the beautiful princess he had rescued from a lake. They stared at each other, and Tristran, ever shy about his skill at the harp and the beauty of his voice, _Tristran_ whom Mark had once had to bribe with a new horse to sing, now sat happily weaving a tale…and it was clear to any fool _whom_ he sang to. He sang for only Isotta, only for her. As far as his eyes could see they were alone in the room. A sudden rage gripped Mark and he tore the battle ax from the guards hands and ripped through the cloth divider between he and his nephew, he swung the ax down meaning to rip the boy in two halves but Tristran had seen him and jumped away from the blow, barely missing it. Isotta screamed and ran to make sure Tristran was not hurt, he told her no but his eyes never left his uncle. The challenge there was easy to read. Tristran was younger, stronger, faster… if Mark wanted to fight him he would surely lose.

"An odd place for an ax to be thrown." Tristran's tone was low and deadly, ever since he was first taught to hold a sword he had never been afraid to wield one against another person. Some boys had difficulty with the thought of cold blooded killing…but never Tristran. He would kill without qualms, but he had manners. He never attacked women or children….and he had never impeded his honor or loyalty by bearing arms against family or friends….until now.

"It's my going away present for you." Mark hissed, "May it serve you well in Briton."

It had taken Mark two hands and all his force to slam the ax so far into the ground, Tristran strode up and removed it with ease, "It may serve me well in Sarmatia yet."

The scene passed and brought another one on its heels, the knights around the fire were all bend forward, watching the tale of Tristran's life in Sarmatia with awe. Little did they know that the thoughts that were narrated he had never heard and the scenes without him he had never experienced. Some of this tale was quite new to him as well.

Mark took a long draught from his goblet, casting a dark disapproving glare at the couple next to him, and as he did Isotta slipped her hand under the table and grabbed Tristran's, "There is a custom here, to give soldiers parting a gift. It can be as simple as a trinket or as grand as a horse or a sword. I gave Tristran an ax, of strong Sarmatian build. Will you give him something?" Mark seemed to murmur under his breath, "Other then your body."

Tristran made to stop his uncle, "There is naught she could give me…"

"Hush, you." Her tone was soft but deliberate, her voice ached with the thought of Tristran leaving, "I'll give you something to carry with you in the cold."

She stood and took a breath to steady herself. Everyone stopped eating and drinking and focused on her, for she had a very fair voice and wove a very fair tune:

_Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide_

_Voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time_

_The night is my companion, and solitude my guide_

_Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?_

_And I would be the one_

_To hold you down_

_Kiss you so hard_

_I'll take your breath away_

_And after, I'd wipe away the tears_

_Just close your eyes dear_

_Through this world I've stumbled_

_So many times betrayed_

_Trying to find an honest word to find_

_The truth enslaved_

_Oh you speak to me in riddles_

_And you speak to me in rhymes_

_My body aches to breathe your breath_

_Your words keep me alive_

_And I would be the one_

_To hold you down_

_Kiss you so hard_

_I'll take your breath away_

_And after, I'd wipe away the tears_

_Just close your eyes dear_

_Into this night I wander_

_It's morning that I dread_

_Another day of knowing of_

_The path I fear to tread_

_Oh into the sea of waking dreams_

_I follow without pride_

_Cause nothing stands between us here_

_And I won't be denied_

_And I would be the one_

_To hold you down_

_Kiss you so hard_

_I'll take your breath away_

_And after, I'd wipe away the tears_

_Just close your eyes..._

"_Possession" – Sarah McLaughlin_

Isotta's voice faltered at the end, tears were falling silently down her face. _Let them know that I'm crying for him, let them see me crying and know. _It was her voice, her thoughts, soft and strong at once. For all that yields is not weak, she had taught him that.

Suddenly she was in her bedroom and Mark was screaming at her, "Do you relish making a fool of me in front of my court?"

"I did nothi—" She began but was cut short when he brutally backhanded her, "_Nothing? _Nothing! You did nothing? Do you honestly think I don't see the two of you? You must be so sad that he's going, so very sad to see him walk to his death. I'll warn you once, fear for your own hide, not his! His fate is sealed! As soon as he leaves these borders he'll never come back!"

"Men have survived it!" She screamed back, like a child who's trying to drown out what it doesn't wish to hear.

"Even if he survives Briton I will not allow him back in these lands! I'll have his throat cut in his sleep, do you understand me? I refuse to be made a fool of any longer! If that boy tries to come back here I will see to it that the closest he comes to you is six feet from the surface!"

"You horrible brute! You bastard!" She screamed and balled her fists, striking him but the blows were weak and did nothing. He threw her off of him onto the floor, "And don't think you'll be spared the punishment for this. Don't think you'll be spared the humiliation. It will do you good to learn your place here. You bow to my will, Isotta. And as soon as your lover isn't here to stop me, you will bow to me or you will bleed for me."

"If you hurt me Tristran will kill you!"

"Were you not listening? Tristran will never come home."

"He will, he will survive Briton, and your guards. He'll kill you. He'll come back for me and take me away from here."

Mark's eyes glinted evilly, "Are you such a romantic as all that? I was a knight once, you know. Every Sarmatian becomes a slave to the Roman armies. Do you know how lonely it gets out there? So far from home, so long until you can return…do you truly believe that Tristran will hold you in his heart for fifteen long years? If the battles do not kill him, he will still be a man. No man can wait for fifteen years for a warm bed, and he will leave thoughts of you outside his chambers. Thoughts of love so rich and potent here will grow stale with the distance and the time. He may not even come back at all! I might be spared the trouble of killing him! Some knights stay there with their whores and their bastards and never come back to their homeland. If an attractive British maid were to flaunt herself to him you think he will tell her that there is a married woman in Sarmatia who waits for him to save her? How young you are, Isotta. How young and incredibly naïve you are. Young love dies as easily as foolish young lovers."

He stalked out of her room with a bitter laugh and she was left curled into a tight ball and shaking on the floor, afraid to get up, and wailing her sorrow at her plight. At Tristran's plight.

The scene advanced, time not a controlled feature in this madness. They were in a niche, shadows played around them and they could easily fall into them for cover, but for now they remained half in the light.

Tristran held both her hands in his, "You know I have to leave tomorrow. Why did you ask me to come here, love?"

Years had fallen on her face in a matter of days, "You _can't_ leave you just can't. Mark tried to kill you once; don't you see that he's trying to again?"

"I was damned to be collected by the Romans since I drew my first breathe as my father's son. This is the fate of Sarmatia's sons. This is not Mark's doing, this is beyond him."

"You don't know what he said to me…." She was crying again, covering her face and leaning into him.

"What did he say?" Tristran voice was soothing, soft; his hands ran up and down her back.

"He swore to me that he would see to it that you never came home. Even if you survive Briton, he'll strike you down!"

Tristran regarded her, the look on his face was pure devotion, "If Briton doesn't kill me, something as weak as Mark won't."

"Tristran, the last generation that left with over a hundred men came back with less then ten. So few return…." He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"I _will_ come back for you. Nothing can stop me, not all the wilds of Briton or the fires of hell. Not my uncle, not the gods. You're _mine_, Isotta, and nothing and no one can stop me from claiming you _when I return_."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her words were soft, "Then you will not stay here…will you take me with you?"

He shook his head slowly, holding her tight against him, "If I brought you with me, every moment that I wasn't with you, you would be at the whims of the Romans. Of all the soldiers that were there when I was not, I will not suffer you to be the slave of lonely soldiers."

"And yet you abandon me to Mark's whims."

"You're his _wife_."

"I'm his _property. _Do you think it would cause him more joy to keep me alive or to kill me and know that he killed you too? He hates us for our affair. He has already tried to kill you _in cold blood_, _in his own home_."

"He knows he's no match for me."

"Which is why he will wait to hurt me until you are too far away to avenge me."

"I shall be a seasoned knight when I return; I shall avenge you a thousand times over."

Her eyes were huge in her face, full of anguish and a wildness he knew not she had, "Are you to become a knight, then, Tristran? A lonely warrior? How big a fool do you think I am? You'll not be able to lie in a cold bed for fifteen years! Who will replace me? How soon will she replace me? Do you just leave me here, your first conquest as a knight?"

"How dare you think that of me!"

"How dare you think I'll sit here complacently while you sire bastards off cheap whores!"

"You have my heart, Isotta, is that not enough for you? Do you demand my manhood as well?"

"If you love me then why do you refuse to keep me? I do not understand… I want nothing more in this world then to be with you, why do you not wish to be with me?"

Tristran didn't know what to say, he merely kissed her forehead and looked deep into her eyes, his words were gently spoken because he knew it would pain her to hear them, "Isotta, enough of this. There is nothing we can do. I must leave tomorrow, and you must stay. Would that I could change it, but I cannot. And neither can you."

There it was, the plain and simple truth that she would have to accept.

She looked numb for a moment but then nodded. Her voice was barely a whisper, "Will you at least write to my brother? You will be far closer then I, you can see how our son fares."

"I will do so, I promise." He tried to catch her eyes again but she refused to meet his.

"I love you, Tristran."

A soft smile came to his face; he lifted up her chin and kissed her, long and lovingly, all of the pain they were going through behind them for that eternal moment. When they finally broke apart he gathered her in his arms, one last embrace, "I won't say good-bye to you, because I will come back."

She nodded and kissed his tattooed cheek before pulling away and her gaze was unreadable, there was great sadness, great seriousness, "Until we meet again, my love."

Suddenly she was in her room, she was pacing. She was biting her nails and hugging herself, he had never seen her so troubled. He had never seen this. She was in her rooms with her maids watching, unable to help their mistress and sitting about uselessly wringing their hands in their laps.

"This must be that night." Tristran whispered as he watched the scene before him. He leaned forward…what had happened that night? How often had he longed to know? How many prayers had not been answered as he begged the gods to tell him what she had been thinking. For so long he blamed himself, for so long he had thought it his fault. And in some ways it was. He had left her there, in her own personal hell and had asked her to accept that. He might have been in hell, but he was not a slave to an overbearing man, he was a slave to Arthur and that was hardly a cruel fate. Arthur treated his men like brothers, Isotta had been left in a place where she was little better then a dog in a cage.

"Iseult!" The maid snapped to attention at her mistress' call, "Yes m'am?"

"Fetch Father Joseph and beg him come here."

"Is it social, m'am?"

Isotta shook her head, "No….no tell him it is a matter of grave import and to not tarry."

Within a flash the scene moved ahead, "Isotta, my lady, what is so grave that you have called me here at this hour?"

"Father, you and I have long been friends. I need you to be my friend now."

He nodded, "What is it, Isotta?"

"I need you to write me a letter….the feeble progress I've made is insufficient for the task I have ahead of me."

"In the morning we can—"

"No now." Her eyes seemed dead, all the life from them gone.

He regarded her curiously and sat down at her desk. There was parchment and a quill with a full bottle of ink.

"Who…who is the letter to, Lady?"

"Tristran."

Joseph made to stand up, "I will not take part in this illicit affair you two are having! Breaking the Lord's commandments –"

"Joseph, please!" Isotta fell to her knees and gripped his arm, "Please, please, it is the end of our affair. The letter will seal it so. Please, friend, please help me!"

He cocked an eyebrow at her, "You swear it is the end of this sin?"

"Yes, I swear it." There was something about the words, they hung heavy in the air, they were words meant in a dark fashion and if Father Joseph sensed it he spoke naught of it.

" 'Dear Tristran…'" Father Joseph began the letter and Isotta clearly dictated the rest of it, "My love I pray when you read this you understand better why I have done what by now I have done…You refuse to enslave me to the Romans, you say that I have no choice but to remain here, a slave to the Sarmatians. Darling, there is another choice for me. You have sworn to see to the care of Drustan," At the name of the child the priest flinched for he had baptized the sinful bastard at its birth and his own brother had been the one to whisk the child back to the safety of Ireland, "and I have faith that you shall do so well. If I cannot live by your side, at least I _lived_ by your side. I will not suffer Mark's dirty hands to touch me. I pray you understand, I would rather die with your kiss still on my lips then suffer for decades awaiting you as Mark's whore and slave…perhaps only awaiting news of your death. At least now I can be assured that you do indeed come to me. I can wait free from sorrow and pain and degradation for you. I am sorry of all I that accused you of this eve, and pray that you feel no burden of guilt at my passing. Grieve for me, remember me, and one day- come back to me. _Mo gra thu You are my love_ Isotta."

The priest regarded the letter, his face was suspicious, "Isotta…what are you planning on doing?"

"Nothing that you would condone or could prevent."

Isotta grabbed the letter and folded it; she melted wax and pressed her family seal onto it before it cooled. She took the quill and wrote with a faltering, child-like scrawl just above the seal T-r-i-s-t-r-a-n.

Father Joseph looked at her as she summoned Iseult and send the girl to fetch a bottle of wine, quickly and quietly. Isotta looked at the priest hard for a moment, "Thank you, Joseph. You have been a good friend."

"What are you planning, Isotta?" His tone was deeper; he knew something ill was being plotted inside Isotta's pretty skull. She merely twirled a curl of red-brown around her finger and shook her head, "You wouldn't understand."

"It's eternal damnation you're toying with!" Joseph yelled, pointing and accusatory finger at her.

"You know _nothing_ of damnation!" Isotta suddenly hissed, "I am already damned, there is nothing I can do to further that punishment."

Iseult crept into the room with the bottle of wine, put it on a table and bowed out, about to go to the door. "Iseult! Come here, friend."

The girl was taken aback by being so called by her mistress; she regarded Isotta strangely for a moment but obeyed. Isotta handed her the precious envelope in the same fashion she had handed her newborn to the servant, delicately, as if a world was being laid in her palms, "You are to give this to Tristran, wait until the morning. First light. Make sure he gets this, it is of great import."

"Yes my lady." Iseult made to leave but Isotta put a hand on her shoulder.

"The both of you wait here. At dawn the other girls will come here and open the door."

"Open the door?" Joseph repeated, "And why would they need to open it?"

Isotta grabbed a cloak and the bottle of wine and went to the door, "Because I'm going to lock it from the outside."

And quick as a flash she had disappeared and locked the door behind her. The priest could feel something evil in his heart, something was wrong. The servant girl looked afraid, she bit her lip and looked from the locked door to the letter, "Something's very wrong. This doesn't feel right; I don't think my lady is well."

Joseph was pounding on the door, shouting. Isotta heard him and knew that if attention was drawn she might not have time….she needed time. She ran as fast as she could into the gardens. She had to keep hiding from guards but she made it outside and into the gardens without any trouble. As soon as her feet found the grass she sprinted again, and was quite out of breath by the time she flung herself onto a patch.

"No…..no." Tristran whispered as he watched.

She was searching frantically, pulling out plants and weeds and looking at them carefully under the half-moon's light. Finally she seemed to find what she was looking for. They were innocent looking flowers, but Tristran knew that they were deceptive in their looks. He had known that they were poisonous, and he had been the one to tell her, not a month past when she had wanted to pick some on their way to Mark's lands.

"Foxglove." She said as she pulled blossom after blossom from the ground.

The other knights suddenly understood, their expressions darkened.

She shoved blossom after blossom into her mouth, chewing furiously and swallowing each with wine. He lost count of how many she ate, far too many.

The scene cut away and he saw the priest and servant girl screaming against the door. As soon as it was open the priest tried to explain that Isotta had gone, that she was not herself. The servant girl ran full force down the corridor and nearly toppled Tristran over.

"What's all this noise?" He asked and the girl was in hysterics.

"It's Isotta! She's gone! She locked us in the room! She wanted me to give this to you! My lord, she should be found!"

Tristran took the letter from her and opened it. He read it quickly, his face dropped.

"Hurry! Everyone! Search the grounds! Search every chamber! Now! We must find her!" And he took off.

The scene cut back to Isotta, who was gripping her middle and biting her hand so that she wouldn't scream out loud. Tears were streaming down her face; her whole body was writhing in pain.

"The gardens, fool." Tristran willed the scene to change from the one he knew was coming, "Go to the gardens."

But Tristran didn't. He was searching every room, he searched the stables. Suddenly a call came. A guard had found her.

He ran there, but something in his chest fell to his feet. He knew what he would find; he knew that it was too late.

The guards had formed a circle around her; he pushed them aside violently and saw her. Her whole body was limp, still clinging to warmth but becoming ever colder. Her eyes were frozen shut, her lashes still had droplets of tears that hadn't fallen, her lips were parted. On her slender hand there were angry bruises and bloody teeth marks. He fell to his knees as if struck. Completely dumbfounded. Tristran, ever confident and calm, let loose an animal howl of rage and grief, "NOOOOOOOO!"

He crawled over to her and gathered her in his arms, rocking her lifeless shell back and forth, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no."

Never in his life had he cried as he had that night. Her hair absorbed his grief; he kissed her face, feeling that this was his fault.

Mark came out, after a time, and stalked over to them, "What's going on…..dear gods…..is she….?"

"Yes, you worthless fool!" Tristran snapped, still clinging to his love, hoping against hope that this was a dream.

Mark's face reddened, "Get away from her…."

"TOUCH HER AND I'LL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS!" Tristran bellowed. Mark looked at him as though he had snapped, "How dare you! She was my wife, boy, not just your whore!"

Tristran's eyes suddenly lost all light, even the light of grief, and he put her body down, delicately. Still staring at his uncle he suddenly stole a sword from a guard and held it right to Mark's throat, "She should've been my wife, not yours. She killed herself rather then be yours…..never ever defile her name to me or I will cut your filthy tongue from your mouth."

There was only a deep, dark promise in his tone and Mark raised his hands, surrendering. Tristran threw the sword into the ground and it stuck deep into the dirt. He turned and bent over Isotta's body, gently scooping her up. The bottle that had been in her hands fell to the ground and when he saw it he whispered, "Poison?"

One of the guards dared to speak, "That's merely wine by the smell of it, my lord. But the ground, look at the ground…"

And so Tristran did, he looked at where Isotta's hands had ravaged the ground. Petals, half-eaten were dancing in the night breeze, and when one finally ceased in its motion, he saw what it was and his heart stopped, "Foxglove……oh love."

He cradled her body closer to his, "I opened the doorway for your death twice-over then."

Guilt tore through him strong as grief, he had not only led her to suicide but he'd given her the means to end her own life. His head bowed in self-loathing and heartbrokenness, he carried the corpse of his lover away from the crowd.

The scene died and the knights stared at Tristran. No one spoke until Galahad, never the warmest to Tristran, gave a small sad smile, "So you do have a heart?"

Tristran shook his head, the words that fell from his lips were cold, "I buried it a long time ago."

Bors nodded, "That's why you're such a warrior as you are, isn't it? The rest of us are trying to go home, trying to survive but you're….you're…"

"Trying to die? Not so…I wanted to die, in the beginning, wanted to end all the pain. But then I would never see my son again." Tristran looked into the fire; the red of the flames reminded him of her cheeks when she blushed, of her hair when it was wet and all the red shone in it.

Gawain through a twig that he'd been playing with into the flames, "How is he?"

Tristran smiled, "The last time I wrote to her brother, the boy had just turned ten, and I was told he's the very picture of me. My face, my eyes, my build. His mother's laugh…. He plays the harp and sings as I did…he's learning to shoot."

"Good, we could use another archer like you." Bors laughed then stopped and made a funny face, "Tristran….did you really play the harp?"

Tristran gave a dry laugh, "Yes and sang."

Bors pretended to be offended, "You never sing for us."

Tristran's face darkened, "She's the only person I ever sang for…I buried my harp in her grave."

Galahad looked at the scout, "You'll get it back one day."

Tristran nodded, he knew…he was counting on it. He looked at Lancelot and Galahad, and they both nodded at him. Tonight they had found allies in each other, comrades in grief.

Tonight, for the first time in nearly a decade, he knew that he was not alone. Tonight, he was just a man in mourning, and the others had understood.

Dagonet came over to him with a stripe of cloth and a small skin containing salted water, and reached out a hand towards Tristran, "Let's see that hand."

Tristran held it out obligingly and as Dagonet washed it and bandaged the burns he shook his head, "You're an archer, you great fool. You need this hand. Couldn't you have burned something else?"

"Should've thrown the damn bird in the fire, then we'd have something good to eat." Gawain murmured, the dark mood of the camp was lightened.

"We should've just thrown your whole body into the flames, Lancelot, we'd have enough tales for the fire for days and then I wouldn't have to worry about my bastards looking like you." Bors chuckled.

Tristran looked to Galahad and Lancelot, they would not joke this night. This night was for remembrance, for their lost ones, not for themselves. But tomorrow night, the camp would be full of all the normal bawdy songs and jokes. Life would go on, Tristran knew.

His hawk landed beside him and he fed her a scrap of meat, "There you go, old girl….what about you, you remember her?"

The bird cocked its head to the side, looked at him and then flew away. He smiled after it, _life goes on._

He had watched life come to a halt, when he had seen her body laying dead in the grass he was sure that he would simply fall over, instantly dead. But life goes on, it keeps moving.

And so would he.

_Fin. _


	5. Final Note

Final Note:

If you've made it this far, congratulations! Looking at all the 15 pages of Tristran's story I thought some people might jump ship prior to this note. And having written the other three sections, was not sure how many people would even make it to the unbearably long 4th installment.

As it stands, those are the slightly legend based stories of Lancelot/Elaine and Tristran/ Isolde (spelled Isotta….cause I wanted to that's why!).

Just some notes cause I felt that author's notes were…a bit inappropriate in the actual stories.

Lancelot/Elaine- I did make Lance out to be a bit of an ass because if you think about it, if some young, naïve girl is absolutely in love with you and has your baby and all that good stuff and you either A) marry her cause her daddy caught you in the sack or B) leave her and cause her to follow you which consequently kills her then you my friend are an ass. I tried to make Elaine pitiable but yet foolish. She is the true dreamer, the optimist, even though she vaguely realizes the truth she hopes for something better then what she gets. Her plight is, arguably, the most tragic because she seems to have a "blinders" view of the world, she sees what she wants to see and tries to ignore the rest. As Andrew Lloyd Webber might say, "Poor Fool she makes me laugh", she is almost too pitiable, almost a laughable character.

Galahad/Eara- She was a creation of my own because the way Galahad was portrayed in this rendition of King Arthur was unique. I have never seen him so….battered by life. World-weary. He's so young and seen so much and really concentrates so hard (too hard) on this perfect image of home. I think that it would suit that he personified this longing for home, found something he thought to be equally safe, warm and free of battle as he imagined Sarmatia to be. He needed something free, without any kind of binds or restraints, because he is so monumentally concerned with his own slavery to the Romans. He is _owned_ by them, _forced_ by them; his desire is to align himself with something the opposite of what he is so that he may grasp to the illusion that he is not a prisoner of circumstance but a man with free will. So I imagined that a tavern dancer, free of inhibitions, would strike his fancy. Someone equally young with equally big desires. She is so used to having an overabundance of freedom that she craves some structure. She is also used to solitude and being treated as a whore, the fact that Galahad has little use for whores and little desire to treat her as one appeals to her. The fact that she can leave a place that she is bored with also appeals to her. Had she lived I am not sure what would have become of their romance… where Lancelot and Elaine would have undoubtedly spent many years in an awkward place where they would never see eye to eye, I think Eara and Galahad saw eye to eye too well. They had a very firey, passionate love that may well have burned itself out with time and gave way to new partners and fond memories of that youthful fling, but as she has died before they got burned she has become a martyr to him. A symbol of the oppression of the Romans and the captivity of the Sarmatians (with a growing appreciation for the captivity of the Woads).

Last but not least my favorite couple (after Lancelot and Guinevere) (or, at times, flat out favorite) Tristran and Isotta.

Arguably the most tragic couple because they are the embodiment of the fight between honor and love. Isotta is a foreign princess promised to Tristran's uncle, a king or equally influential nobleman. Tristran is sent to fetch her and they fall in love. There are so many wild renditions of the tale that I could not pick one I liked the best. I did not like the notion that Tristran had been flitting back and forth between Ireland and Briton multiple times fighting soldiers and princes and numerous other things basically because it was a long hard journey with medieval transportation and I felt bad that he was constantly making it. So I chopped that down to one. Then there's the whole love potion angle…not so much thanks. I prefer the old fashioned love, no potion necessary. Then there's their plight. Some tales speak of them living in the woods in self-exile and having a child and then Isolde returning after a fight they had. Self-exile, not my thing really and stealing a man's wife was a hefty insult. Especially if you're his hot-shot nephew, so I decided to avoid war. Plus, if self-exile could get you out of service to Rome I doubt that Rome would've had very many Sarmatians in their cavalry. Since the service to Rome had to be added in, I simply made it seem kind of like "Hey we showed up to take your nephew to Briton but since we're tired and you're rich we're gonna mooch for awhile so that he can bang your wife, okay?". Though I did think that they might've had a child. The movie's portrayal of Tristran, possibly more then anything, led to my personal belief that he was the silent, strong yet very passionate type of man that would kill for you, die for you and even sing for you. While Tristran is noted as being a musician, and I was loath to take away the obvious humor from imagining Mads Mikkelson with a harp, I made him a reluctant singer. His only passion is Isotta and he will do anything for her….I also imagine their sex life to be very good. Where Lancelot kind of used Elaine and Galahad was all fire and passion with Eara, I think Tristran and Isotta suffered from the constant shadow of being caught and killed. I think of their love as rushed and fearful but true. I think if they hadn't been living under the constant fear of death, things would have been done properly: Wooing, courting, marriage and THEN babies.

Also the whole Drustran thing is taken from a name Tristran's character is sometimes called by. Also, if they had a kid, obviously they can't keep it with them. Far too suspicious. Sad as it is, they'd have to find a wet nurse and send him on his merry way.

And obviously, I took out the whole Tristran-gets-married-to-a-different-Isolde thing because….well….I just don't like it. You love a woman damnit don't marry a different one.

And that's the various rants on the 3 parts of this. If I get bored I may at some point upload a Gawain/ Ragnelle that's been floating about in my head but it would probably be another monstrous one-shot the length of Tristran's or more because it's stupidly complex. The whole "Loathy Lady" angle is a bitch to deal with.

As it stands, hope everyone liked it and please review!


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